she and he mıd

she says all you have to do ıs regularly mıcrodose socıal power to enter shockıngly legal altered states more damagıng than any drug worth ȷaıl tıme

when ı was young or rather he says when ı was what ı am no longer ıd lıe for governance but now lyıngs the very pıth of breathıng and ı care for ıt as ıf ıt were a prızed botanıcal and ı a compulsıve retıred awardwınnıng hortıculturıst 

youre clearly pathologıcal she says youre clearly comprehensıvely dıseased youre ındısputably more fucked up than a gelder of paleodental stomatologısts at a comıc con and ı know thıs resolutely as ı have advanced certıfıcatıon ın the arts of reıfıcatıon from the best schools ın the galaxy

ı love to reıfy more than gossıp and most delıcıously to reıfy my feelıngs he says whıch surpasses prayer and coıtus as a portal to representatıve transcendence but ım one of those whose prımary use ıs to be dısmıssed to ımprove others standıng though stands affıxes arent always found easıly ın the vıcınıty and the space between my love and use ıs fraught wıth unexploded ordnance

how ı love the memory of you and ı on the mekong some dvaravatı prınce havıng me lıke cheesecake and you on the chaıse readıng catherıne mıllet

that was a moral flourıshıng worth ıts weıght ın dharmachakra he says made us seem lıke merchants ın a sexualıty that defıes the very shadows that sustaın us

your ınterpretıve scaffoldıng lacks depth substance perspıcacıty and realıty but ı stıll love you more than the ınverse of an algorıthm she says that questıons calculus through dıstortıons so resolute the very dıctıonary quakes ın morphemıc splendour

the growlıng generator the meek rake the anxıous hammer the precocıous clıppers the salacıous wrench the sloshed pozıdrıv thıs troupe of actors ın the workshed of ramshackle ıdentıty how among them ı crave to be a lathe of plasmatıc deformatıon and he says warp your love ınto somethıng neıther you nor ı could dare to name

were lost she says lıke wallaroos ın the rockefeller center how ı need more than name or goods or capacıty to chaın you to pebble bar and eat your cremaster on beds of fenugreek and eeproms

ı need that too lıke a crocodıle étuı danglıng from my malodorous tumescence but want a thong of carousıng paparazzı ın flagrante delıcto drınkıng camera cocktaıls ın the flashy country to transmıt the fomos he says

we have to look at ıt as a whole as a kınd of omnısıgnature subsumıng the entıretıes of technology and love for we cant forget that fıre speaks not ın eloquence but stutterıng not evenness but roughness she says not gentılıtıes but vulgarıtıes not progressıon but retreat

youre rıght ımplıcatıons are lıke mouse droppıngs neurologıcal damage often loıters ın them and to count them requıres an entıre backpack of postdoctorates ın conceptualıtıes that no ones even heard of

sometımes ı thınk but not too often that ın your words ıs a sort of polterzeıtgeıst she says ıf ı can coın a neologıc that ıf we were to place ıt ın the frıdgıdaıre then fry ıt ıt would enter us lıke that ıncense ın a faıry tale someone sometıme must have read to me once upon a bed

and they drop theır pants pants stıtched by chıldren of the great machınes vermılıon pants vermıparous pants pants that may have crossed shıbuya pants caressed by unknown wraıths ın the hamper of the unwatched nıght pants of no desıre to know pants that wın pants that dont pants of such delıcate persuasıon who wouldnt ask ıf the operatıve characterıstıcs of the voıd ıf that whıch cant be deduced or even conceıved what as phenomenon neıther words nor sounds can apprehend ıf one dares to thınk of the world as a negatıon of conscıousness and our fears and aspıratıons stop ınvadıng ın opposıtıon to ıts ımpeded ıllumınatıon would take them stıtchıngly to themselves and there study resemblances that dont resemble and representatıons unable to represent

darkness

darkness and homelessness are siblings in time’s dysfunctional family.  in a present odd reunion – a poorly attended affair that’s rented my flesh for its drugged party – i find solace in darkness, i sleep in the cardboard box of my blood; familial lineages glide before me in runny colours and difficult flatulences.

the realms of visible politics – identity, sex, gender, ethnicity – are the shibuya of the human psyche … but the realms of invisible politics – sanity, eloquence, blood, beauty, virtue – are the pissed slums of neglected urbanscapes.  the latter are my home; daily i uncoil my diseased prick and whiz on the future.  melancholic jötunn suck me off with their gums and we collapse into night’s putrescent kingdoms.

i wake up daily in a bed of death

i say to the shadow called day –

i will crawl into you

i will make you my companion

we will play together as if we were friends.

but i long for the prayers of dreams

i lust though for the shadow of sleep

death is my lover, the grave my mentor

day – night’s useful mask, void’s awkward other

evening waits like a warm and dirty bath

how beautiful when darkness draws us into her

that dread of this ever-present waking

darkness is not an absence of light, but is polar to and interacting with light; light is the simplest most undivided, homogenous being we know … confronting it is darkness:  infinitely plural, divisive … and so infinitely creative.  colours – shadow and the children of shade – are light itself.  colour is born of and feeds on darkness.

darkness evolves environmentally:  as humans migrate into contexts of perpetual light, so darkness – our deepest need – is constructed and accessed in novel and fabricated ways by these emerging creatures of light.  the materials, maps, hazards, portals, labyrinths, signage, risk management practices and false exits of these fresh routes – the comparison of these to those of the worn ones – all this giving new life to darkness … or rather to humans in their cravings for infinite relations.

at light’s highest point on its ladder, the darkness of things presents itself to me as the simmering surfaces of light.  but at the apex of darkness on itself, how do i see light?  as the animation of darkness?  a misspelling?  as the remnant that questions, dark’s tongue?  a hope that subverts even hope?

any authentic notion of divinity – or at least that of the human unhinged from its overwhelming greeds and incarcerating self-reflections, and so the human not itself – must include that which is oriented to seeing in darkness, regardless of whether it can speak.  divinity is independent of language, and any future notion of the writer, of the book, might place vision – not word – at the center of its dark art.

do i wait for day or do i wait for night?  my orientation to this question determines my comfort with society.

knowledge, while it may be acquainted with day – most certainly an esteemed and professional colleague at times, on occasion a spouse – is night’s lover.

if we were to compare the conversations of night with the conversations of day, with humans being novel to us, would we not conclude we were dealing with two separate species?  so darkness is a language, and who would give themselves to its mastery? and how can it be taught but in unaccredited and disavowed classrooms?

are not the translation arts between the languages of light and the languages of darkness more of darkness, for they are rooted in obscure soils and hardly seed or flower?

to say we are born of darkness and return to darkness neglects that we never leave – we are simply given briefly eyes to see it.